


A leaf on the wind

by DeVereWinterton



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Gardens & Gardening, Green fingers, Let me help you with that, Non-Established Phrack, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 19:44:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13508487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: Jack tends to the garden. Phryne ‘assists’ to the best of her ability. Non-established Phrack.





	A leaf on the wind

**Author's Note:**

> This short story is actually part of my [drabble collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13374201/chapters/30628866), but I felt it needed its own post. I extended it because as a separate story, I feel less restricted by word count. So, it's like Chapter 5 XL? I would like to think this happened somewhere near the end of season 3, but feel free to imagine it any way you like!

_“Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners.’_

— Shakespeare, Othello

 

The late September sun was delightful. She loved winter and snow, but the approach of summer always made her inexplicably happy and giddy. It always had done. When she were young, summer had meant freedom for her and Janey, getting out of the house for days on end and away from dreadful difficulties brewing at home.

Spring had quite literally sprung upon them this year, and all the vegetation around Wardlow had suddenly started growing and sprouting without so much as a warning or a slow prelude. It was a lovely sight, to be sure, but it was too extensive of a task to thrust maintenance upon the singular shoulders of Tobias Butler. He’d never asked for her help – and she doubted she was of much help to begin with – but when she’d offered he had appeared almost relieved.

Of course by offering her help she’d meant offering hers and Jack’s. Well, mostly Jack’s. She’d planned on sitting up on one of her sunbeds, a refreshing glass of lemonade in one hand, to keep an eye (or both) on Jack as he ploughed on. Perhaps inadvertently flash him a knee...or thigh. She had to admit that, by now, she had grown accustomed to his secretive stares, his hidden come-hithers. Not only had she merely grown accustomed to them, she longed for them. His eyes on her legs, her covered breasts, hell, even her hands would make her desire for him flare up significantly.

Unfortunately, upon arriving and uncovering her hidden agenda of luxuriating, he was not having any of it and had forced her to roll up her sleeves – figuratively speaking – to get down to the nitty-gritty.

She knew Jack loved gardening. She’d visited his home in Richmond, once, to drop off some case files, and she’d caught him mowing the lawn, looking ridiculously content. Not to mention delicious with his mussed up curls, tan skin and the way his white dress-shirt had become semi-transparent in places. After he’d freshened up (much to her dismay), they’d had tea in his neat garden and he’d told her all about the flowers, plants and – to her horror and his amusement – insects.

One could say he had green fingers.

She, however, was completely green when it came to matters of gardening. She wanted to learn, she did, but she could think of so many other extracurricular activities for her and her stoic Inspector that already promised to be far more...fruitful.

Therefore it really was to be regretted that she was currently unable to enjoy neither the pleasant spring heat, nor Jack in a bathing costume (oh, she’d make him), as she was stuck in the gardening shed near the kitchen. However, she was stuck in there with a certain Detective Inspector and things were on the up, because he was looking positively delectable today. He always did, one had to be blind not to notice that Jack Robinson was a fine male specimen, indeed. But today, her mouth had watered at the sight he made when he’d walked through the kitchen door at the appointed time. Gone was the buttoned-up officer of the law she’d come to know so well. His replacement was a dashing man with slightly looser curls than was his custom, wearing worn brown tweed trousers, deep maroon braces, an old white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and sturdy brown leather boots. The top buttons of his shirt were undone and the sight of his collarbone, not to mention the sparse chest hairs peeking out from the top of his undershirt were terribly distracting.

She’d already cut her finger, twice, dreamily gazing over her shoulder at his magnificent arse as he bent over the workbench to plant the rose cuttings. There was a small bloodstain on her light blue sundress, as she’d wiped her finger on the flowing fabric in a moment of inattentiveness, distracted by his movements. She’d always suspected there was a magnificent body hidden underneath all of his cumbersome clothes, and she was pleased to note her assumptions had been correct. 

Not that his bathing suit had left much to the imagination in Queenscliff, and thank the heavens for that.

She was repotting some of the smaller hydrangeas, or at least, that’s what she was attempting to do. She had been upset with Jack when he’d told her he’d see to creating the plant cuttings of some of the rose bushes from the garden. His task looked easy enough, and now she was stuck doing the hard labour.

She hadn’t the faintest idea what a plant cutting was, but obviously she had purposely neglected to mention this to Jack. She did not want to come off as a complete and utter ignorant, even though she suspected he knew about her gap in gardening-knowledge. Although she wasn’t a full-fledged botanist, she knew her flowers. However, putting that theory into practice proved to be somewhat of a challenge. The fact that he hadn’t called her out on it was just so... _Jack_.

Apparently – and from the looks of things – plant cutting meant creating tiny baby-plants out of the big mother-plant. For what purpose or to what end, she had not a clue. There were plenty of beautiful roses growing wild and free (a little too wild, at the moment, hence their joint efforts) in the large gardens at both the back and the front of Wardlow, and she saw no point in adding more. Jack, however, had insisted this was necessary in order to keep the plants healthy and to ensure one always had enough new ones at hand.

He’d mentioned it was a calming practice, taking care of the cuttings until they were large enough to be relocated from pot to solid soil.

She’d snorted. Inwardly, of course, because she did not snort.

Mr. Butler was tending to the hedges and the roses at the far end of the garden. She could just make out his figure across the way, a hedge trimmer in hand as he cut the box hedges. The slow-growing, evergreen shrubs had gotten quite ahead of themselves over the course of a month and required some vigorous trimming to regain their boxed shape.

She was facing the small window – sunlight streaming in and illuminating the specs of dust floating around – working at the makeshift wooden counter and casting longing glances through the window. She didn’t mind the work, or the dirt, having grown up in the slums of Collingwood. But the blue sky, the green grass, all of it was calling her. Freedom was so close! The feeling of nostalgia was not lost on her.

Behind her, Jack was humming softly and mostly to himself as he worked. She doubted he was even aware of it and it warmed her heart. His low timbre resonated in her ears, her chest, the tips of her fingers. It felt right, _this_. This thing between them. She smiled, trying her absolute best not to ruin the next hydrangea as he had entrusted her with this task and she did not want to mess it up. Moreover, she wanted to prove to herself and to Jack that she could excel at anything she put her mind to.

The obnoxious plants really did come in the most vibrant shades of pinks, purples and blues, she mused. Maybe she could use the colour palette as inspiration for a new dress...

She looked out of the window once more, imagining a low, dipping neckline, delicate straps, material that flowed around her body like the petals of a flower, dancing on the wind, exposing creamy thighs. She imagined a firm jaw line, a sharp Cupid’s bow, hot lips tracing the material from her neck, along the neckline, across her breastbone, the ghost of a breath near her nipple...

She could almost see why Jack found this whole gardening-business relaxing.

That is, until she cut her finger – for the third time in a row – in an attempt to trim this godforsaken monstrosity.

“Fine, I give up. You win!” she exclaimed, slamming her cutting shears down onto the counter, eyeing the unsuspecting hydrangea with a narrow-eyed glare whilst sucking her injured finger into her mouth, staining it with her red lipstick. Muttering some expletives under her breath for good measure.

She barely noticed Jack, who’d wiped his hands on his trousers and had come to stand beside her. He gently grabbed her hand, to place a sweet kiss on her injured finger ( _hislipsareonmysaliva!_ ), regarding her with a soft look that made her heart skip a beat, before dropping her hand. A faint blush adorned his cheeks, a slight worry shone in his eyes. Darling man.

He found his voice, eventually. She was rather glad for it, because she was certain she had just become a mute.

“No, you’re not. Here, I’ll help you.”

She was completely dumbstruck, for once, as he manoeuvred to stand behind her, his arms reaching around her to hand her the shears. She remained motionless as her finger tingled pleasantly. The finger he’d _kissed_. Of his own volition. Without her having tempted him, baited him. Oh, the press of those moist lips was going to star in her dreams tonight, although very likely on different parts of her body. From any other man, a kiss on her finger to ‘kiss it better’ would probably have been considered rather innocent, childish even. She might have even rolled her eyes if it had been anyone other than Jack.

But fact of the matter was; it _had_ been Jack, and everything the man did when it came to touching her was never, nor had it ever been, ill-considered.

“I said I’d help you, not _do it for you_ , Miss Fisher. Come along, shears at the ready, please.”

She could feel his chest pressed against her back and it did terrible things to her focus. Why was he so warm? Why did he feel so good? She barely registered his request to grab the shears, but as she came to her senses – albeit barely – she noticed his bare forearms. Funny, how something quite as mundane as a forearm could be completely arousing because it was Jack’s. It was rather wide, muscular, with strong tendons, some large veins and a few scars. There was a rather prominent one that ran from his wrist all the way up to his elbow and disappeared underneath the rolled-up cuff of his shirt. The contrast between their skin tones struck her; pale ivory against sun-kissed bronze. She found she liked it, could imagine their bare bodies laying entwined, a soft cream against warm amber.

“Why are you putting so much effort into this plant, Inspector?” she asked, revelling in his sudden proximity. He smelled of Jack; clean, honest sweat, a faint trace of pomade and books. He smelled of safety. Of comfort.

Of home.

She wanted to wrap herself in his scent.

“It is important to ensure it is...properly prepared,” he said, and she could hear the smirk on his face. He pointed to a few twigs that needed cutting and she obliged. His shift of weight caused her behind to lightly brush against his front. To her grave disappointment, he adjusted his stance.

“Why?” she queried, wondering if his fondness of _preparation_ extended to other areas of his life. She suspected (hoped and prayed) it did.

“It needs to be trim, Miss Fisher, so it is as good as new,” he explained patiently, showing her another twig that needed trimming.

“For what, Jack?”

“Well, it has to be _inserted_...into fertile soil, in order for it to continue growing and blossoming.”

She gasped.

He snorted.

Infuriating, arousing man. He was _teasing_ her! Her! Then again, in retrospect, she supposed she kind of had this coming after everything she had ‘done’ to him.

“And what about the baby-plants over there, Jack? Do they need to be fertile, too? That’s rather a lot to ask of a baby-plant, is it not?”

He chuckled, and she could feel the vibrations from his chest ripple through her body. A faint throb made its presence known at her core as he grabbed her hand to show her the proper way to cut the thin branches. His forearm lay on top of hers as he guided her through the motions, and it was as though nothing else existed but this point of contact. The rough texture of his skin against hers was steadily grating away at her sanity. And dear _God_ , why was he so _warm_? His presence was intoxicating.

“The ‘baby-plants’, Miss Fisher, are for propagation purposes. Cut right there.”

“You make reproduction sound about as enticing as that fungus you showed me earlier, growing on that tree.”

She cut.

“Ciliatus, of the genus Polyporus, actually,” he rumbled in her ear. She clutched the shears in an almost white-knuckled grip, vividly remembering a different kind of genus and an almost-kiss. The tension between them was palpable, as though the recollection of their shared memory was making it tangible. Regarding her own hands, she realised his had stopped moving altogether, placed on the edge of the counter, caging her in. Those wide, beautifully sculpted hands and those long, elegant (and apparently green) fingers.

She shivered. She wanted those hands on her skin, feel those fingers inside of her, reaching for her most intimate of places. She rubbed her thighs together.

“As for the ‘baby-plants’, their propagation is completely _asexual_ , I assure you, Miss Fisher,” he spoke in that low voice that made her knees wobbly, hesitantly nuzzling the skin underneath her ear.

She thought she would come apart from the sound of his voice alone, strained and deep. She pushed her hips into his as she arched her back to allow him better access to the hollow of her throat. He groaned against her pliant skin as the globes of her arse ground down into his groin. She hummed her approval as he involuntarily bucked his hips against her. 

She turned in his arms, the desire in her eyes mirrored in his, grounding her. Still, there was a trace of worry there, but she would soon rid him of it. She found his doubtfulness adorable. As if she could deny him? Her Inspector, _her Jack_.

His hands came to rest upon her hips instinctually, before quickly attempting to remove them, worrying he’d stained her light dress. She kept them there - ignoring his protests - covering the backs of his hands with her palms. When she was certain he would not take them away, she slid her hands around his neck, her fingertips teasing the short, coarse hairs at his nape, marking him with the dirt on her digits. She brushed her breasts against his chest, only a few flimsy layers of cloth separating skin from skin. His sharp inhale made her press closer. Her nipples strained against the silk of her camisole, the heat of his chest scorching them. She moaned softly, and his hands tightened on her hips, pulling her closer, the beginnings of his arousal pulsing against the juncture of her thighs.

“It’s a good thing we’re not plants, then. Isn’t it, Inspector?” she practically purred against the hot skin of his neck, breathing in that heady scent, sliding her hands down over his shoulders, to toy with the neckline of his damp undershirt, to run her fingertips across the exposed strip of smooth skin beneath his collarbone. His jaw was set, tense, and her mouth went dry, whereas her knickers were soaked.

“It is indeed, Miss Fisher,” he rasped, moving his hands backwards to cup her arse in his firm grip, aligning her pelvis with his semi-erect cock to suddenly rock against her, pressing her against the counter with his weight. She whimpered.

Her eyes fluttered shut involuntarily as he leaned in, until she could almost taste his breath on her tongue. Would he at long last indulge the two of them by taking her, right here against the counter of the gardening shed, in broad daylight? She squirmed against him, needing more of that delicious friction, wanting more of his wonderful heat. He actually growled against her lips, panting, and it sent a glorious shiver down her spine, as he pushed his cock inbetween her thighs. She grabbed his shoulders, pulling him towards her-

A brisk knock at the open door caused the two of them to jump. Phryne would have laughed at the man’s insistence on propriety by knocking at a door that was already open, but at the moment she was too put-out.

There was a short silence as Tobias Butler quickly gathered his wits. He had not exactly anticipated to stumble upon this specific scene, although he had to admit he was hardly surprised. Not because of Miss Fisher’s ways with men, but because as far as he were concerned, this had been a long, _long_ time coming.

He was happy to see his Miss and the Inspector finally appeared to have arrived on the same page. Well, maybe not on the same page as of yet, but at least they were in the same book. He had no doubt they could fill those empty pages with quite some interesting tales, from what he had just witnessed.

“Excuse me, Miss. Inspector, if you would you be so kind as to assist me with a rather stubborn rose bush? I have been trying to dig it out, but thus far to no avail. I suspect some tenacious roots,” the older gentleman spoke, diplomatically regarding the cuttings to the left as he addressed the couple, small drops of sweat visible on his forehead as he reached for a handkerchief to wipe them away.

Jack had hardly ever been more grateful for the man’s utter discretion as he used this moment to extract himself from Phryne’s ardent embrace, composing himself and barely succeeding as his eyes met hers. He felt like a child who’d been caught stealing candy. He had to look away from her lustful gaze, lest he would push poor Mr. Butler out and have his way with her on the bench amidst the cuttings. He nodded at Mr. Butler - not trusting his own voice - who then turned on his heel and headed outside.

Their eyes met once more, smouldering, the promise of what could have happened this very afternoon simmering just beneath the surface (and in Jack’s trousers).

“Dinner, tonight?” she asked, knowing he'd pick up on her hidden meaning yet feeling suddenly insecure, all the same.

He held her gaze, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

“I believe...that might bear fruit, Miss Fisher,” he smirked, as one side of his mouth curled upwards in his signature smile, before dejectedly following the loyal servant out the door and towards the far end of the garden. Rolling his shoulders back as he went, taking a few deep breaths.

Phryne sighed, trying to calm her rapidly beating heart, then smiled to herself, regarding the baby-plants.

The seeds had been carefully planted – by both of them – over the course of the past months. They had nourished them, cultivated them, and she, for one, was more than ready to reap the benefits.

The look Jack sent her, looking back at her over his shoulder as he exited the shed, told her he very much felt the same way.

Fertile soil, indeed.


End file.
